Monday, November 7, 2011

There is something to be said about someone who knows exactly when and how to touch you. Then again, when you've had over a decade's worth of touches, is it a testament to someone's skill or their ability to adapt to routine?

Was it availability or desire that kept us boomeranging towards each other?

It was easy to get lost in him.

There was so little offered, I could imagine or make up the rest.

I invented a world between us and he did not protest.

He always knew just where to put his hands.

Much to my dismay,

he ALWAYS knew just where to put his hands and my well formed protest would evaporate, becoming extraterrestrial to my mind.

I tried to have all serious conversations at a distance. Even the phone would become one of his tools of manipulation and control.

Inevitably, I'd find myself touching myself simply from feeling the gravel in his voice and remembering what it felt like with breath pouring across my neck

as he'd beckon me

as he'd implore me

as he'd command me to do his bidding.

Thing is,

he never even had to say anything.

Just look at me and I would know exactly what and how we were about to do things.

In person,

I couldn't resist him.

On the phone,

he tortured my imagination with unwilling reminisces about the countless times shared between us.

I had to find a way to talk to him without talking.

Text or email would be the only way I could fortify myself when I had something of import to say to him.

Whether he'd memorized the map of pleasure he'd inked in kisses along my body over time

or

if he was still discovering new ways to make me pant did not matter.

This time,

I would hold strong and speak to him in a font that conveyed my seriousness.

I would stray from the flowery language he'd make me spout.

My tongue would be leaden and expository instead of made from cotton candy and metaphor.

I would not exhale poetry during this conversation.

I would not sweat verse.

If he answered correctly,

if he took the silly girl seriously,

then we'd resume our irregular existence in the never never land we created amidst the soft fabric of high thread counts.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Filled w/post coitus bravado he'd curl up beside me as though he had another round in his joints. Within seconds, he's so sleep I feel his random twitches & involuntary muscle spasms coupled with that deep chest breathing that lets me know that round 2 won't be going down any time soon. I smirked to myself, happy with the warm and now quiet body wrapped around me. With his massive form I was always serpentine curling myself around his limbs, those awesomely sculpted mounds of toned flesh, like a boa trying desperately to draw the warmth from stone.

I wrap round him like ivy across the bricks of his stomach.
I am spanish moss dripping from his boughs.

Watching him get dressed so early in the morning makes me smile. The light is too dim for him to see that my eyes are open, but they are....They ALWAYS are. In the sliver of silver dusk that crept over the tops and around my billowy curtains I can freely ogle his chest, arms, legs, stomach as he unknowingly stands in nature's perfect spotlight. The grey blue of the morning kissing every curve of his exquisitely chiseled form, echoing each place I'd allowed my tongue to dance just a few hours before.

It's a crime against humanity, un pecado mortal, to see such an amazingly perfect musculature wrapped so shabbily & ironically in a cheap wife beater. Nothing about his physique is cheap. He looks like all the wealth people pray for. Delightful, sensual, insatiable.....I wasn't going to let him leave that easy, When he bends to pull up the black sweats that'd been left in a puddle on the floor I reach out to tug on the waistband of his boxer briefs and pull him back into the jersey sheets I'd picked because they remind me of him. They are the same color as that amazing torso of his.

The first time I'd turned the lights off with him, I'd had white hotel sheets on the bed. Even in the dark, he stands out like a remarkable candied spectre. I wanted to melt against him on those overly soft sheets, and I did.
And he did.
And we did.
Again
And
Again
And
Again

Until it was the bright haze of afternoon streaming in through the same window and languidly we lay, spent and draped across each other bodies all akimbo, adhered to each other with a paste of passion in too many places to distinguish who or what was the origin. Eventually, he'd stand, and begin to wrap that divine body in fabric unworthy of his form. This time, I'd let him. Unsure, he'd glance in my direction as he dressed slooooooowly, inviting me, challenging me to stop him so our game could begin again. Eventually, the two of us would hobble to the door, 2 Olympians destroyed by our favorite sport, leaning on each other like 2 wounded veterans, and he would leave.

Long after he'd leave I'd find myself rubbing each place he'd kissed, touched, held, caressed or bit with the sheets that still smelled like him. Licking my lips as slowly as he had to taste the traces of his kiss he'd left behind. Even if only gone for but a few minutes a sense of overwhelming longing would wash over me.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

I was so sensitive. When I drink, it dulls my inhibitions and it makes my senses so alert and awake; my scalp felt alive. I was completely in tune with how I felt. When he brushed my hair, it was soooo soothing. We used to drink so much that we would completely lose track of time and it would feel like he'd been brushing my hair for hours. My hair got sooooo long when I was with him.

We used to drink a whole lot.
We used to drink a whole, whole lot.
And when I would get drunk, I'd ask him to brush my hair.

Funny the things you forget about the people you should most remember.

I've never been tender headed. How could I dare be so with all the hair I have? When I was a baby, I didn't have any hair for the longest time. My mother was afraid I would grow up and be baldheaded woman. She always wanted to protect me from the sun. For the first few years of my life, you'd be hard pressed to find photos of me with nothing on my head. Mommy believes strongly in covering up babies' heads. Especially bald babies. I was the only baby being toted around in dorags, sunhats, bonnets.

Then something happened. My hair grew and grew and grew and grew. It wasn't necessarily long per se, but it was thick. Mommy had to get extraordinarily creative with how she would tame it. I never had the stereotypical little brown girl multitudinous braids with all the 50,000 barrettes. Mommy always used to say "I don't know why they've got those poor little girls out there looking like a pinata on their heads." I did have the most unfortunate collection of braids and plaits ever. My hair REALLY did look like I was one generation removed from slavery with the way she used to comb it.

I remember I always used to see the other little girls with their hair out. All the little Black girls I went to school with had relaxers and the little White and Spanish girls just had hair that was long and hanging down their backs. Sometimes when I was at school, I would take my hair out of the confines of the barrettes she used to bind my hair into submission. I would pull my hair to make it feel longer and straighter and I would run up to my mother when she came to pick me up after school looking like I had a cloud of brown cotton candy hovering over me flying every whichaway. No order or direction or shape. My mother would get sooo mad at me as if the plaits were maintaining order. Or as if the crooked parts were keeping everything under control.

One summer, I stayed over my friend's grandmother's houses for a week in the summer. Her grandma lived in the suburbs so it was like a getaway for us without really ever going far.
Her grandma had cable and neither of us did.
Her grandma had central air and neither of us did.
Her grandma also let us eat whatever junk we wanted and weren't allowed to eat at home.

She also had a hot comb and pressed hair. She pressed her granddaughter's hair. She pressed my hair.
That was the first time I'd EVER gotten my hair pressed. And I almost didn't want to turn back. But then I was told I couldn't run. I couldn't sweat lest my hair would "go back."
It was summer and I couldn't run?
I couldn't sweat?
I couldn't do any of the stuff I liked to do because I had to maintain how my hair looked.

I thought "How funny! To look pretty, I can't do stuff that I love." I wondered if there was some sort of trade off or correlation you had to have where in order to be pretty, you could no longer do what you loved. When you're pretty, it means people are looking at you and paying attention to you. You're gettin praise and whatever else. I sat and thought about it. I didn't think that long about it. But think about what kind of thing that is for a child to weigh and measure. The implications of what that choice meant to a little girl who liked to run and be herself: If you want to do things that you love, you might not be accepted by those around you.

That kind of stayed with me for a while. The notion that in order to be accepted and valued and praised, I had to stifle who I was or pretend not to like the things I loved. I would have to turn down who I was if I was going to be accepted. As a result of wanting to be accepted and loved and valued I tried it for a little while. I pretended to be someone else and I was MISERABLE. I decided that acceptance by the ignorance was overrated.
I've always been eccentric.
I've always been different.
I've always wanted to stand out.
I've always who I am and just recently realized that I shouldn't apologize for that anymore.
You can be loved for being who you're supposed to be. If people can't love the woman I am, they aren't the right ones to love me.
-tygerlily

they made it soo easy to be mean to them while he always got the best of me.

i wanted to get him out of my system,
then the chords of a song i'd forgotten would bring me right back
right back to the first time i realized i'd fallen in a well i couldn't get out of
right back to the first time he gave me goosebumps in body parts i didn't know existed.

i loved getting lost in the maze that was his heart
and signed up to do so time and time and time again.

the intricasies of his patterns
a creature of habit who confirms to none.

i kept swearing him off
but like the junkie i am,
i've never kicked him...
he is my greatest vice
my favorite drug....

i am addicted and there is no substitute for the high he gives me...
even at my worst,
i am my best for him and him alone....
i can't get him out of my system....
i've known a life without him and don't want to see those days again...
i don't wanna....

Friday, May 6, 2011

It all started with a couple of glasses of wine for dinner on a weeknight and I got to thinking,

"I feel like rocking a wig."

I don't rock wigs as much as I used to, but I like to keep one around 'cause....well, I've always liked being able to play dress up soooo....What? I'm a drama person and aspiring drag queen. You never know when you'll need a good wig. YAAASSSSS.....

What makes one randomly feel like she needs to rock a wig? With my return to #twitter & my twitterversary coming up, I was having a lil' bit of hair envy. Some of y'all just have luxurious locks (both grown and purchased) all cascading all cross your shoulders and down your backs in profile pics & twitpics. Yeah I Solange'd myself a million moons ago, but now I wanted something to be cascading down my back and cross my shoulders. #noheauxsht. I wanted daytime stripper hair. (shout out to @saigrundy) Me with loooong hair and sexy poses would look awesome in a new profile pic. He also hadn't seen me with longer hair. I thought about surprising him rocking it next time we went out.

Oooh he'd like that! I'd just show up w/my wig luxuriating like I'd gotten out ALLLL the Indian in my family blown out in the Dominican's chair. Oooooohhh! What if I I played sexytime dress up by myself and snap flicks on my phone and sent those to him. YAAASSSSS. He'd like that. (This is where having wine for dinner starts to be a bad idea....)

What started out as me creating and homage to soooo many people's faux fly camera flicks evolved into me playing out my skripper fantasies in the full length mirror in my room to achieve the perfect poses for my photo shoot then went all the way left and almost left me needing the ER last night.

Don't get it twisted, the Doll is fairly fit. I'm REAL sexy with my clothes on. Hell, once or twice I've even been told I'm not just limber, but FLEXIBLE.....For my age anyway....Chile....In trying to achieve the perfect sexy yet anonymous photo I got about three cricks in my neck, did something strange that made my kidneys ache and somehow caught a charlie horse AND a deadleg.

I have a new found respect for those who have folders full of self shot self soft porn portraits on their smart phones. That mess is not as easy as you would think it is. I thought I'd be able to face the mirror, hold the camera just so and end up w/ a flick that both was and wasn't me. I wanted it to suggest me, but not look like something I'd have to explain after I become famous when it suddenly surfaces on the top of someone's blog or comes across my bosses desk. When I set out to try record my grown up game up by-myself dress up and take these semi sexy self portraits I KNEW not to commit the cardinal sin others have done in the past:

DON'T SHOW YOUR FACE

DON'T SHOW SOMETHING THAT EVERYONE KNOWS IS YOU

Some of you may already know that I am a woman with ink. The ink I rock proudly is fairly distinguishable and in places hard to mask. Well, under normal FULLY clothed circumstances, you wouldn't be able to see it. But these were not NORMAL fully clothed circumstances. These wer my attempts at creating a nudie representation of myself and by nudie, I clearly mean not even Skinemax worthy. How was I to take a photograph of myself that had neither my tits my tats or my face would get me a more stern rating with the MPAA? I mean, the wig would help in hiding features I wanted to disguise, so on it went. That was easy.

Figuring out how and where to hold the camera was a totally different adventure. That mess was HARD!!!!

I'm a woman of a certain age so I have a fairly good grasp of what my good angles are, in what I look best etc.... It's something I had to learn over time. It's amazing how the slightest change in posture or angle could add or take away years from my image on a real camera. With a real camera I can appear fairly photogenic. I say this with great modesty from years and years and years of feeling awkward in what was my gangly body. (You can take a tomboy out of her overalls.....) Finding out what makes me look/feel good on and off camera has been an arduous task. When asked to take a picture, I would feel a certain way inside when I posed for the picture, but there was a decade or so where that feeling wouldn't translate to the film. In a lot of ways it was because I was trying way too hard to hide the discomfort I felt and trying to look like something or someone I wasn't. I have no idea who or what, just not me.

Within the last 5 years, somehow that all changed.

I finally felt comfortable in my skin. Graduating to taking a big girl photo of myself seemed like a natural progression. Practicing by myself was like the (un)dress rehearsal.

All bets were off with this damn camera phone.

First of all, in trying to mimick America's Favorite Camera Phone Poses, I have deduced that you have to have the wingspan of Shaq to take them well. I'm not a short woman, but my arms are far too short to box with the god of cameras on phones. Other than overhead flouresent lighting, NOTHING is as unflattering as the indoor lighting on "impromptu" phone photo shoots. Every time I'd get what I thought was a semi decent pose or expression going, something disastrous would go down. In trying to give the camera smoldering vixen, I ended up looking like a porous crone from zooming in far too much. When I got what I thought was my petulant cherub pout going I instead looked like I'd scorched my lips on a curling iron.

I've seen sooo many people with actual sexy pics with their phone. Somehow they have mastered the art of looking #popsiclehot with low pixels and resolution. Then to flaunt their skills and shape they post them all the time on thematically nude Twitter days.

How the hell does someone take a photograph of their own ass?
Are y'all hiring production assistants for these situations?
Is there some secret rule book or Facebook group that offers pointers on this kind of thing?
Why were my attempts at sexy pics coming out looking like a preschooler drew them with dull crayons on wet oaktag?

I started to feel like the awkard tomboy again trying too hard to be the Lolita and failing miserably. The pics were dark and blurry and unflattering. I could see my stretchmarks. I sucked my stomach in until I could count my ribs. I pouted with an open mouth. A closed mouth. Snarled slightly. Tossed the wig. Put it back on. NOTHING I did or wore made the photos look nice. I was about to give up the ghost and throw in the towel when it occurred to me:

Could it be my phone?

palm+forehead.

Do y'all know this old raggedy ass janky ass phone I've had for a year now still had the protective film on the lens?

palm+forehead.

Maybe it wasn't me.

Kudos to those with the time and expertise to perfect that utterly useless skill. It seriously took me the better part of an hour to get just ONE flick where I looked cute, inviting, and like one of my secret selves. I've watched enough seasons of Top Model to know that taking an hour's worth of flicks to get ONE passable shot would've had Tyra telling me to return to the mansion, pack my bags, and go home. To top it all off, it wasn't even a SUPER sexy pic like I wanted.

Lawd y'all. This is why some of us shouldn't have idle time on our hands...

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

sometimes i can't help but to beam when the idea of you crosses my mind.
I think of all of you
from the way you stare at me when you think i've fallen asleep
to the way everything feels like it has dropped out of my insides when we're unhappy....

making you mine was the only way this could have gone
i never planned on releasing you
letting you rest within my coils was the only way
i had to possess you
entirely wrapping my limbs around you
enveloping you in my cloud

fatigued beyond belief
you have made us this way
our quabble has forced us to live exhausted for two days
i would rather live exhausted from hours too late from drinking you

love him so much, it was all that mattered.
before i even opened my mouth to utter the words to him...
makes my speech seem tattered
words i'm used to using end up sounding foreign

Dancing between discretion and submission
got me wishin'
you were fishin' in my blue lagoon
too soon to give a damn whether you come or go....

too soon

too slow to realize we're moving too fast
can't last selling my milk away for free
saw you laugh at the scars on my knees
ready to earn more for you...
too soon to call your name when another touches me

seeing babies in your smile
not trying to be the mother of your child just remembering
innocence captured in the glimmer of your eye
innocence disappeared as your hands pulled my thighs

too soon

staring at the skyline under an amber moon
pretending not to stare at each other
too soon to call you my lover 'cause it's not love i have for you

too soon not to return calls from others dreaming of a brother
i long for within
too soon to tell him that we are unable to be more than just too soon

passionate about a passion that shuns me with its greatness
causing time apart to make me feel ill,
realizing you've begun to fill a place in my life too soon
too sudden yet loving the suddenness of your embrace from behind
behind dark hours that keep us safe from remembering time
behind clouds of vices denied
shunning the rules
inventing destinations creating them as we go
trying to listen for the song each of us forgot was inside
we hide from unworthy pretenders
becoming defenders of our feelings keeping ourselves from feeling anything new
too busy being through with everything we've already been through
to realize what the 2 of us could do
for days and days on end but then again,
we only have days before the suddenness suddenly is not so sudden
and sadly
sullenly
i find myself alone.

Monday, May 2, 2011

Thinking of midnight eyes at 9 o'clock in the morning and wondering whose tongue will meet her thighs tonight.

A woman who is free can make 2 am eyes at half past five at the man who stares too long through his Windows of imported German glass
and
Run her hand up her shirt at happy hour,
For she really is happy,
and
Need not wonder who or where,
Just know that later there will be a who deep somewhere.

Thin line between coquettes and whoredom
She dances this line daily as she bathes away the scent and lust of midnight men and dawn screwing.

Remembering that the choice of so-called freedom,
A Liberated body bound to a conscious mind,
Was her own.

So,
Thinking of midnight lovers at 9am does not always bring a smile to lips.
Instead,
She thinks of vines in the twilight hours,
A swamp fog for a swamp fox.
He was her lover.
His eyes never told tim,
Only stories of what the midnight magic hour could bring.
Peyote kisses,
Hair like Spanish Moss.

This is what she thinks of when the man in the truck stares through his tempered Japanese glass.

She thinks of midnight eyes at all hours of the day.
Happily letting fingers dance' tween her legs,
Upon her bosom.
She thinks of kisses that guide her through the city's swamps,
Moist thighs,
Damp skirts flapping and biting her ankles all at dawn.

Those midnight men polluting her womb with unworthy attempts at planting progeny.
She stands in her shower while he sleeps in her bed.
Someone deep somewhere.
There are no swamps,
No timeless, ageless eyes.
Only a sticky stench that she watches pour away from her body
and
Run away to the drain between her toes.

Happy to have the freedom to dream of all those she has kissed with her knees,
All those she remembers at 7pm when the traffic has finally lightened up again.

When she smiles,
She can't explain why.
Being a coquette again,
Never a whore.
Never at midnight.
-tygerlily

Friday, April 29, 2011

You're so hypnotizing
Could you be the devil?Could you be an angel?
Your touch magnetizing
Feels like I am floating
Leaves my body glowing
They say be afraid
You're not like the others
Futuristic lover
Different DNA
They don't understand you
You're from a whole other world
A different dimension
You open my eyes
And I'm ready to go
Lead me into the light....-Katy Perry

Thursday, April 28, 2011

He is a sound sculptor and music is her church. It seems only appropriate that he rendered her deaf.

What he did to her was senseless, but in doing it, he managed to wake up all of her other senses.
She had to lose one.
He who bends sound with such ease made it so she couldn't hear a thing.

She couldn't hear anything.

She could feel their heartbeats beating inside one chest as his pressed against hers pressing against his.
Their skin melted into each others creating one body making a flesh latte
light and sweet
drowning their hips in the rhythmic pulse they couldn't help but dance against
dance with
dance in
they'd heard and sung this song before.
this was their anthem.

She could taste the very rich extreme fullness of his kisses.
His lips are her favorite fruit.
One of her basic food groups; she devours them every chance she gets.
She could taste his breath on her collarbone,
on her stomach,
salivating over each nipple,
sliding against her thighs.
His mouth was everywhere and nowhere at once.

She knew he was talking. She could see his mouth moving. She could feel his lips moving as he pulled each one into her willing mouth. She kissed him so violently she thought she'd torn one those precious fruits she cherished so deeply.

She kissed him with lips,
with teeth,
with tongue,
with arms,
with breasts,
knees,
thighs and ankles.

Their teeth clashed against each other she was so eager to abuse her senses to feel more of him.
See more of him
Taste more of him

She could see him seeing her. His honey colored eyes coating her with his piercing gaze. He stared at her, into her. She could see him seeing her and was afraid of what he'd observe. She could see him looking at all the flaws on her scarred body, mind, and heart. He could see the things she hid so well from everyone else but could never hide from him. He was still there, still devouring her, still drugging her and her senses.

She could smell his delicious sweat that dripped down his pulsing jugular and rested in a pool in his collarbone. His scent always reminded her of her greatest and worst decisions all in one. With him, she was always her most authentic self and he devoured her in spite of it. She slurped the puddle of nectar up greedily. She could smell the cocktail of his scent mixing with hers creating a nerve gas that lulled her to do whatever he wanted to
but still couldn't hear a thing.
Couldn't hear the sweet nothings she felt him whispering in her neck.
Couldn't hear the longing he mumbled into the sweet spot behind her ear.
Couldn't hear the murmurred melody of moans, the harmony they'd purr as her eyess rolled all the way up into her head.

She could feel her own wetness drowning them both and feel the delight he felt as he rode each wave of their pleasure deeper and deeper inside.
Feel the skin break under her nails as she digs in as he digs in.
Feels the teeth sink into her skin as if his last name was Cullen.

He stole her hearing so that she would only hear him.
And he did it so artfully.
Hear only the growl in his voie when he beckoned her to come closer.
Hear only the longing in his pauses when he spoke to her.
Hear only the possession that was implied in his touch.
Hear how he grabbed hold and pulled her closer than close just......then.

Her missing sense came flooding back to her.
She thought herself dead, killed by him without even trying because all she heard was angels singing. She thought herself dead and surely in paradise because she what she heard was so powerful and strong and unlike anything she'd ever heard before.
She thought herself dead until she felt something warm and wet in the just under her chin and realized she wasn't dead at all.
At least not literally. Le petit mort.

She could hear again, hear him whispering to her....
and she whispered back....

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

She didn't mean to put on so much, but she knew he loved the way it smelled so she doused herself in it. It was a blend of oils she'd made up and called "Come Hither." She only wore it when she was definitively on the prowl. This combination could and had had detrimental affects when worn carelessly. A lover once told her it smelled like the best sex he ever had. Tonight, she applied it to all the places she wanted him to kiss.
Wrists
Nape of her neck
Valley between her busom
Backs of her knees
Small of her back
Her navel
The meeting of her thighs
It had been so long since she'd last....seen him and he was only in town for the night. She hadn't even planned on going out that night, but since she was out, she wanted to make sure he knew shewas there before he could even see me. She wanted to linger in the air.

Would he look the same?

She made her rounds 'round the table, greeting and air kissing until she got to him. He stood, opened his arms then slid them around my waist under her open jacket and pulled her to him so effortlessly. She had fully meant to keep her distance in the embrace, but instead, feeling those arms around that waist....she was back in the familiar place both of them fought so hard so often to forget. She nestled into that familiar faraway place, her head resting in the valley of his neck and just inhaled him, as she was sure he was inhaling her. He bowed his head and ran his finger from her collarbone to her cheek and back again. She craned her neck eagerly anticipating the bites he used to plant where his thumb now danced. He planted a soft kiss an inch or two lower than he should have for it to only be a kiss of greeting.

When she felt his lips on her neck, she forgot where she was, forgot who she was, or what she was supposed to be doing.

"I know that scent well." He whispered into her ear as he took a deep breath of her scent. His breath almost felt like a growl in his chest as he took a hit of her intoxicating smell. It emanated off of her. His face was still much too close and much too low to be as innocent as she was feigning this encounter to be.

Just as quickly, he pulled away and held her at arms length, a wry smile on his lips as he drank her in visually. She battled with her legs to invent a steadiness she certainly wasn't feeling. He'd made her weak. So much for them just being friends. No one at the table even batted an eye. The whole exchange had been less than half a minute, but a lifetime of their encounters washed over her in that instant.

They sat at the table in close enough proximity to tell a thousand secrets to one another with their eyes and careful smiles. Without speaking they made dirty promises about what they would do to one another if ever they were able to escape the rest of their party. The drinks flowed easily. Her clothes felt too heavy and she was disinterested in the meal. She looked at him an he bit his lower lip ever.so.slightly.... She got fidgety and impatient.

She excused myself from the table and felt his eyes consuming her as she walked. He felt her wetness around him from across the table, across the room and his eyes continued to devour her as she moved slowly away from him and the party they were with. Knowing he was thinking about the same thing she was caused her to inhale slowly and hold tight her muscles at the entry to her love. There was no certainty they would be able to make good on what they were both so close to they could taste it. She didn't want to get her hopes up. She strode as confidently as she could towards the ladies' room. The hallway was dark and long and narrow and led to a tiny water closet with a pull string light.

She looked at herself in the mirror.

The flush she was feeling had crept up her neck to her cheeks. She rinsed her hands under cool water, wet up a paper towel and pressed it to her neck to try and sober up from this longing that had made her dizzy. She'd hoped the wet paper would help to cool her hunger.

When she thought she'd collected herself, she opened the too small door and stepped out only to be met with him standing a few feet down the hall propped against the wall, head hung ever so slightly. His presence startled her and she stumbled back. There was a tiny ledge between the door and the hallway and seeing him there caused her to slip and almost fall. He darted forward to save her, one arm slid into the small of her back and the other into her hand.

Around him, she even fell gracefully.

He righted her and she found herself up against the wall trying to catch/steady her breath, her pulse doing a step routine in my ears. They were frozen as if caught in a moment on a faraway dance floor. His arm round her waist, his other hand holding hers slightly above their heads. He leaned her arm against the door jam and allowed his arm to sloooowly travel down her wrist, her elbow, up her shoulder, cross her collarbone until his finger traced the line of her jaw to her chin. The soft pallate of her throat fit perfectly between his thumb and forefinger and still holding her by the throat he commanded her her neck upwards to welcome his kiss. With just those two fingers, he had the strength to hold her exactly where he wanted her. He had her by her neck pressed against the doorjam, the mass of his body against her. She couldn't get away if she wanted to and there was not a drop of fear in her heart. She liked how he held her.

Something about the danger of it made her pulse quicken.
Something about the aggression of it let her know exactly where he was waking up the next morning.
Too much needed to happen for them to part ways at the end of the meal.

Her chest rose against him. He left no room between them for it to fall.

Over his shoulder, she saw a busboy darting towards them,
misunderstanding the encounter and trying to come to her rescue much too late.
She welcomed his kiss.
She welcomed his arms holding her to him.
She welcomed all of the possibilities that night had to offer.

-----------------------
The dim light creeping around the curtains let her know they hadn't slept at all. He laid head to foot on the bed drinking in her legs through his hands. He'd run his fingers from heel to thigh, then glide his open palm over the vast expanse of her legs as if trying to memorize them or cover them in his fingertips. He kissed them, licked them, bit them, embraced them, held them. Even with morning-after hair and makeup she'd never felt as beautiful as she did that morning in his eyes as he devoured her legs. She'd never felt so tall, so supple, so womanly as she did laying across that hotel bed that morning.

Laying with him

Her skin was so awake with passion... she could feel the difference in the callouses on his hands, the soft pads of his fingertips....They were drowsy with sleep and longing for each other but too afraid to let the minutes pass by sleeping through the morning....after all, he was only in town for the night, and the night was running away from them fast.

She turned her gaze away from him briefly into the pillow and was met with her own scent mingling with his. Her breath seized sharply when she felt him wanting more against her thigh.

One hand slid effortlessly up her calves, up her thighs, making small circles 'round her belly as if saluting the home of the baby they joked of making.... up higher and higher, dancing along one breast, then the other until he had her neck once again cradled between those fingers of his. His mouth followed the same path his hand had taken. She arched under each slow, wet kiss...each one eliciting a soft gasp from her parted mouth. He climbed her slowly with his mouth til she pulled him close to her, so very close to her. She panted against the same place her face had nestled into hours earlier when they were still clothed.

He looked at her. She looked back. Their eyes met. Their stare answered hundreds of questions. Usually one to look away as she writhed with want, she held his gaze, smiled at him. He smiled back. They both inhaled deeply and then,
he entered her just as he was and she let him in....
-tygerlily

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

EDITOR'S NOTE:This post 1st appeared on THELAURENSHOW over a year ago. Some of you are faithful readers who've seen it before. Some of you are newbies waiting to be inducted. At any rate, this guest post was first done by one of the homies who asked that we address her as Myparentshateme. I am nothing if not obedient... enjoy!

Ladies, what's the big deal about head?

tygerlily was telling me that a couple of weeks ago, she was chatting it up w/a friend abt another married friend of hers whose wife doesn't give head.

I blatantly made fun of the girl.

Not giving your boo a professional is to me as grave a sin as women who cant/dont cook. Broads should get marked w/a DENIED brand so fellas don't get caught out there w/one in the crib and a neglected peen.

I'm saying, how can u be grown & not rock the mic?
Crazy ish is, I believe shorty prolly expects dude to lick her love below.... How does that work? You don't wanna test your gag reflex, but feel as though he needs to slurp your vag yogurt? How do you rationalize that? No really, put me on 'cause you, dear sister, are living in DE-NIAL.
say aaaaahhhhhh....

Personally, ever since my first attempt @ "singing," I have to admit, I get turned the eff on knowing that I can do something to make a fella feel good, make him feel goooooood.

I like to see a mu'fcka's toes curl from the pleasure I am bestowing upon him.

I enjoy hearing those low guttural moans crawl up out his chest.

I appreciate all the "oh sh*ts" he spews at the top of my head like machine gun fire as he's about to cum.

That sh*t gets me really f*ckin....well, you get the picture....

I've made it a point to get my skills w/that on point. I read about it. I watch instructional videos. If you want to be happy in a relationship, I heartily advocate sucking a mean cock.
Don't know how? 4 out of 5 exes will tell you I know what I'm doing when I go down.

I know some chicks are reading this right now and thinking #hosh*t.

Y'all b*tches are prolly single and salty about it! Don't hate me, hate the fact that you're a prude.

I've heard from some of my girls that they don't do that because they don't want the dude to feel like he "got me."

Wtf?

You don't want him to think he "got you?"

Let me get this straight, you think letting him tickle your tonsils with his man meat means he "got you," but doing the hokey pokey with you bent over in the kitchen on a butcher block chopping board doesn't?

Riiiiiigghhhhht....

You boning him, aren't you? So why not give him the boning he'll never forget?

Not only that, but you feminists want power and equality, right? So why not take out all that frustration you feel about job and economic inequality by making a dude squirm and beg for mercy from the skills you can't put on a resume? Use what you've got to get what you want...E'rybody has a mouth...come check my tonsils......aahhhhhhh.....

Now that we're grown it is way more important to have QUALITY sex rather than QUANTITY. Afterall, who wants to be a lousy lay? Who wants to be the forgotten fck?

I was recently working on my "list" of all the boys I've boned before. There are A LOT of names that were left off the list. Why? 'Cause they are forgotten fcks. If I remembered them, then at best I know I got nekkid with them, but there was nothing memorable about them or about us unclothed for me to feel the need to record them for posterity. In..out...in...out..and next thing you know, some sweaty dude has collapse across my perfect busom. If I'm not feeling it, I damn sure ain't faking it. If I'm not faking it, why would I bother remembering you for a later date and higher number.

In essence, they are misdemeanor lays. They'll get erased after a few years and won't stay on your permanent record.

They were fast food dick. They tided me over when I was hungry, but they don't neccessarily qualify as a memorable meal.

Think of them as the snackwrap of penis. A guilty pleasure you indulged in and right afterwards wished you hadn't.

But, I remember everyone whose dick I sucked & I remember them WELL....ok, maybe not ALL of them, but I do remember most....

Funny thing is, I'm almost a hundred percent sure they remember me too. How do I know this? Cause the few times I've bumped into them somewhere & given the obligatory hug, something below has automatically bumped into me. It's like seeing my smile causes a Pavlov hardon for them.

If I allow the conversation to actually become a conversation, inevitably they'll fish for details about my marital/relationship status, or lack there of, and drop hints about their own in attempts to try and get this old thing back.

Please save me your armchair feminisms about how I should be more to a man than a wet mouth barrel o'fun.

You're absolutely right.

Women should be well rounded, intelligent mates versed in global news and pop culture, be patrons of the arts and have the innate ability to both prove themselves right without emasculating....THAT'S NOT WHAT THIS POST IS ABOUT.

It's about how some broads really got selfish ass mentalities and don't understand why they can't keep a dude...

It's 'cause you're not gargling babies.

UmmKay? Sorry to break it to you. Don't believe me? Try it out and see. If I'm wrong get at me. If I'm right, make sure you hydrate, don't be scared to spit on it and I won't sit by my mail bow looking for the thank you note. Your hands'll prolly be to busy to type it anyway.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

He danced the shredded nylon between his fingers, distracted from his original task by how easily the synthetic frayed between his fingers. He hated synthetic fabrics, but couldn't seem to escape them. They were everywhere in his life. He liked his strippers in synthetics- it only seemed appropriate. Cotton was too chaste a fabric for a girl doing-business-as Chastity. Strippers should not wear real materials because they do not exist in real worlds. Their worlds are shrouded in darkness and fatigued disdain. The ladies of the evening fawn promises of pleasure on would-be-suitors tat are as pure as the costumes that lay in puddles at their feet. To be successful, they must be skilled at seducing, but rarely satisfying.

Women like Chastity were vampires, hungry for the contents of any wallet or purse fool enough to summon them. He wondered if Chastity had ever meant what she purred into the ears of men as she peeled off her clothes for their enjoyment. He'd watched her coil her body round the pole on the middle of the stage salaciously contorting her body into serpentine shapes. She enticed with her eye contact. She beckoned with every bounce of her synthetic body. Now, she laid before him, spread across a borrowed bed, trying her best to look expensive against the bargain bed-in-a-bag comforter. The pattern was created haphazardly. A careless quilt that had no plan. It came apart at a few of the seams, not from age but rather from careless stitching.

The black nylon frayed more between his fingers. It seemed to dissolve with every touch. Each tug made it look less like a piece of fabric and more like the balls of scrap and thread that would collect under his grandmother's sewing machine. The memory transported him from the foot of the bed where he sat watching a woman who should be chaste writhe against herself like a she-beast in heat.

He could smell the smoke from her clove cigarettes though it had been well over 15 years since he'd actually smelled them. He reached to the spot on his arm where she had burned him with one of those brown cigarettes. It had been an accident, but it had singed his toddler flesh nonetheless. His grandmother was trying to take the scraps from him to put them in her scrap bag with all the other pieces of torn clothing or remnant of other people's bathrobes she stitched together artfully to make a living.

Eventually, the scraps he held would become a part of another quilt once she'd managed to wash the stink of lust and her sex from the nylon. He'd have to do it. She wasn't able to handle the intricacies of the craft anymore and besides, his grandmother hated synthetics almost as much as she would hate a woman like Chastity. A woman not quite a woman, much closer to a girl. She trivialized everything and lived only in the moment. It hadn't taken many bills to pass between their hands for Chastity to be in front of him as she now was.

Something about the ease with which she offered herself to the highest bidder enthralled him even if only for a few moments on someone else's bed. He liked looked at her body and trying to discover where her seams were. Chastity was a trinket he'd picked up for himself and unwrapped too hurriedly. So much so that he'd ripped her teddy to shreds. The pattern he thought he saw on the comforter was really the lace and straps he'd torn from her. His fervor had not subsided, but he wanted to savor what he'd purchased.

It was unclear if her writhing was a result of discomfort, ecstacy, or her desire to always appear as an object of lust and adoration. A walking, breathing piece of erotica. He wanted to know her age, but feared that conversation would make the moment dour and unpleasant. He rose from the foot of the bed. She stared at him with a look he was certain had been seen by many men before him and would no doubt be seen by many men after him. She beckoned him with a very deliberate curl of her lips. Every bat of her eyelashes, every slow exhale and the inhale that swole her ribcage causing nubile breasts to point to the heavens the way they surely did when the surgeon shaped and sculpted them....every part of this was intended to ooze sex. To allow it to waft off of her and each curl of sensuality to pull him in closer and closer to her willing trap.

Chastity sat up, laid an artificially tanned hand on one of her doctor sculpted tits, pouted her enhanced lips, and simultaneously twirled strands of hair a color that certainly didn't match her birth certificate. He couldn't help but think how beautiful this pseudo woman was. It was as if her synthetic clothes, body, and world mashed together so perfectly. Could it last forever or would the sparkle reveal itself to be no more than glitter and dust? He didn't really want to stay forever. Chastity would try to keep him if she knew what he came from. The possibility of her salvation aroused him. Made him think he was a knight or a prince come to rescue the beautiful damsel from the beasts of the darkness that kept her trapped in a make believe world.

The possibility of living two fantasies simultaneously, both the erotic of men's magazines and gentlemen's clubs and the juvenile of fairytales and Disney movies made her pout endearing to him. He wanted to experience her with all five senses. With Chastisty, he was on vacation from his everyday existence and wanted to revel in every moment his money paid for. He heard the Beatles playing somewhere. It felt like she was conjuring the lyrics of Helter Skelter with every breath she took.

"Do you want me to love you?"

He wanted to taste her. He wanted to suck her juices from the shreds he was using to trace the arch of her foot. She waited. Acrylic nails pinching around her right perky nipple. He crawled towards her and took that nipple into his mouth, cupping the swollen breast like a gourd full of water in a desert oasis. Chastity dropped her head back as if she'd been struck and let loose a moan from a place more real than anything else in this make believe room.

She slid her hand from breast to his neck, spreading her palm wide and pulling her hand into a fist allowing each lock of his hair to loop around her fingers. She had a fistful of his hair and he had a mouthful of her breast. In one motion he trailed a saliva heavy tongue from the nipple that caught his eye to her neck. He kissed her neck fervently, even bit her as she ran her fingers through his hair and dragged her left hand's fingertips along his back.

They caressed, kissed, pulled, tugged, snatched and bit each other until rubbing against one another's hot bodies became too much. Chastity whisper begged for him to complete her satisfaction. He withheld. Still happily living in the fantasy and afraid that entering her would bring his delight to an end. Chastity ground her body closer to him until it seemed as though she had melted into him completely. He deliberately held back, but she would not accept defeat. She wound her body and placed hands and mouth on him over and over again.

He forgot whatever responsibilities he had outside of this pretend place. Anything outside of this room was what now felt make believe and all that was real was the longing he felt for this artificial woman with her saccharine sex. Every faux part of Chastity was what was real. He wanted to ingest her and consume her so that no one else could be this close to her. His head swirled with Jim Beam and visions of what they could be pulled her closer to him.

Life outside had become complicated and presented situations beyond his control. Here, in this rented boudoir he had complete control over an inauthentic woman...a simple woman...an uncomplicated woman....She pulled him closer and slid her body against him. He felt himself against her. Her warm and inviting body, her wetness felt like a magnet he could not escape. He never wanted to escape this perfect pretend. This woman whose synthetic lingerie was sticking to his knees as she stared at him in a rehearsed glare that burned holes into his logic. This pouty perky place of peace came at a price he could easily afford financially, but emotionally she was bankrupting him with her flesh.

Chastity was available to him with no demands no requirements. He pulled on one of those pouted lips with his mouth. He believed this to be real even if only for those moments. Chastity took hold of him and slid him inside the only thing on her that was real. He allowed himself to relax, let go of all restraint, and suddenly, nothing else mattered.

She remembers the first time he showed her his scars….
she’d gone to 2 for 1 margaritas and on a whim sent him a text to see if he was free that evening.
they’d been sexting back and forth for what felt like years but really had only been a few months.
It had only been since memorial day and it wasn’t even labor day yet.
He said he was coming through
She didn’t know what to do.
She was new
She was new again.
She hadn’t been new in a while, and she was very, very new.
He came over
Traversed all the boros he had to get through to get to her
And he was there
He was there and just as fine as all the pictures he’d sent her over the months had made him out to be.
She was afraid.
She was afraid of disappointment
She was afraid the anticipation would outlive the possibility
She was afraid that they hype would be greater than the hump.
He pulled up his pants leg and showed her his scars.
There were so many of them
So many places but somehow, they worked for him.
So deeply imbedded in the curvature of the muscles of his leg
They were
Perfect
scars
Almost more perfect than the ones he’d paid for on his arms.

She’d had 2 for 1 margaritas and had to follow up with something when she got home ‘cause she was not typically the kind of girl who did things like that….

Isn’t that always what all the girls who typically do stuff like this say say before they do something like this again?
He sat on the floor
She sat on the edge of the couch
Watching him
Rub one scar and then another
And
It was just something about being close to a man that
GODDAMNED FINE
In her house who wanted to be with her enough to travel as far as he did to get there.

She pounced.
She didn’t mean to pounce,
I promise you she didn’t
She didn’t even realize she was stratteling him and that one lobe of that delightful ear
his one delightful unpierced ear was in her mouth.
She sat facing him and his hands cupped her buttocks as if he were going to offer her up in to the heavens in thanks for what she was doing to

His neck
His ear
His neck
His ear
His collarbone

Up to his chin
Up to those lips
Those lips to this day still make her quiver

She saved a picture of him to her mental harddrive and every now and again she opens it to remember what those lips did to the many,many,many inches of her long frame again and again and again….

It was his fault
If he hadn’t shown her those scars and how they formed dimples on those amazing legs of his
She wouldn’t have done it
But she did

And now
His hands are now up her back
His hands are now in the nape of her neck
Holding it back
Two fists full of her hair
Craning her neck away from his mouth so that he could take her in the way that she had taken him in

His hands had none of the callouses that a man of his musculature should have had.
His hands felt like they should have spent his life embroidering
No scars on those

She couldn’t even remember how their shirts came off
But she did remember feeling as though in that split moment when his amazing torso pressed against her breast first time that she probably should’ve never done anyone or anything but him.

He wrapped his arms around her completely.
He could wrap his arm,
one arm
around her all the way.
She felt small and frail in his strong embrace and she liked it.
She liked the way it made her feel.
It made her bold

She pulled her own hair
She pulled herself back down to devour that mouth.

Without so much as a grunt a moan or a forced breath he stood holding her
She wrapped her serpentine self him
Her legs clinging to his waist as though that was where they had always intended to be.
His arms around her
And the next thing she knew they were somehow undressed
Neither of them remembers how it happened
She remembers one of those scars brush ever so slightly against her inner thigh
She felt the scar and then his nipple drag closer to her knee
as his face went lower
and lower
and lower
covering every molecule of her flesh with kisses.
She hadn’t planned on it going here
They were just going to make out,
She thought
But, make out they did like BANDITS
The way that he was making her feel she soaked his mouth, his chin, his mustache, his beard,
She didn’t know she could get as wet as she was.
She
Just
soaked
him.

And
He
Liked
It.

He moaned as he devoured her.
As he stuck his tongue deep inside her
In a place where no one had been in sooo long.
Nobody had been there in such a while.

She turned the light off and lost track of where she was
But somehow she could still see colors
She could still see the notes that the slow jams mixtape she’d put together were singing
And she couldn’t even read music.

He felt
SPECTAULAR
He felt like every moan she had wasted on any and every one who came before him

And when he finally tore the wrapper open
and
covered himself in a sheath and slid into her
When he finally got inside her

Sweet Lord and Baby Jesus
She
felt
like
she
was
new

She was new
He made her new
And she didn’t want to know anything but him
He knew how new she felt.
And instead of being cocky or arrogant or stuck up or disgusting
He moaned as if he was new as well.

Their new newness
Their joint newness
Made her even wetter
And she felt herself sliding against him,
She felt herself rocking with him,
Towards him
Against him
Under him

He slid one of those softly strong into the small of her back
Cupped her buttocks
And pulled her closer in
She couldn’t help it
She shrieked

He looked at her startled and didn’t know what to make outta the sound she just made
It sounded like someone just cut the throat out of a live rooster
She said
“I am so sorry….It’s just that you are sooo fcking…..”

and she couldn’t even finish the rest sentence
‘cause he was soooo fcking her sooo fcking well.

Then he started to say her name

She lost it

She lost control

He just kept panting her name into her neck
“Lucky….” She heard him moan

“Lucky!” She heard him moan

as he started to go harder

“LUCKY!!!.” She heard him moan….

And she couldn’t remember his name ‘cause she’d only invited him over for a few drinks so she just said

“Yes, baby! YES Baby! YES BABY!!!”

And he kept calling her Lucky and all she felt ‘cause she certainly was to be something that felt like that
And Lucky she became.

That night he held her ALL
Night
Long.
Long after they were winding against each other’s pelvises
Long after they’d made a sweaty puddle against her new Egyptian cotton sheets
He held her in that puddle.
She was perfectly willing to give him the spaces he thought he was going to need
So she rolled over.

He took one of those chiseled arms, slid it underneath her
Pulled her to him
Wrapped her in the other one
Nuzzled the back of her neck from her kitchen to her collarbone
Kissed her across as much of her breast as he could without folding her and breaking her bones in those oh-so-strong arms of his

And then

They went to sleep

She felt part of him still hard against her
She felt part of him still hard rubbing on the top of her thigh
And she almost forgot she didn’t really know him
And
Almost let him slide back in
But he was sleep
She felt the twitch of his slumber
She felt the sleep in the breaths he exhaled along her neck
Breathing softly on her neck
Breathing sweetly as a new baby

They were new
He knew how new they were and he let it be amazing.
-tygerlily